An inquiry into the forces which act upon my brain as it enters another depressive episode

I am currently a whirlwind of “she thinks I’m annoying” and “if you don’t stop talking he will think you’re awkward” and “she doesn’t really love you; that wasn’t a joke, and she didn’t tell you what she thought of your dress.”

It has been stalking me since the end of last year. I had been running and running and running and running and I finally received respite from it. I ended the Winter 2015 semester safely, and I began stuffing the world into the holes on my heart.

I fell in love. I felt happy. I was happy for the first time in a long time. Then I got sad, because I couldn’t tell her I was in love — I was scared out of my mind — but then I was happy again because she said it.

I can never tell whether I am really happy or if I am just distracted. I can never tell whether I am really happy or if I am pretending the thick, grey fog that chokes me isn’t watching me, waiting to envelop me again.

Last night I laid down on my girlfriend’s couch. I was staring at the ceiling, tiring of fighting off the cacophony of voices which make me feel inferior to everyone — especially her — when I sensed it. I began to breathe heavily; I was so terrified of it happening again. I began to sob. I was so scared. I clung to my girlfriend like I cling to my own life, and I wept.

Now I am sitting in the dark, and it is mid-afternoon, and each word is forced. Each word is subjected to a barrage of criticism from my own mind.

This doesn’t sound like me.
This is too personal.
This cannot be applied to someone else.
This is hackneyed; everything about it is hackneyed.
This is overdone; everyone writes about depression and anxiety.
This doesn’t sound like me; my sentences flow beautifully.

Now I want to change gears and look at what might be causing this. This will sound more like me because it is clinical; it is devoid of emotion until emotion is useful.

My grandmother died. Her lungs gradually filled up with fluid. I laid beside her in her hospital bed, holding her right hand, which gripped mine hard. I heard her lungs expand and collapse; I heard how difficult it was for her to pull the atmosphere into her body. She died, and when I entered the room, her eyes were flung open to the ceiling, mouth agape, chin dropped down as far as gravity would take it.

My friends gossiped about me. I am biSEXUAL, so, it stands to reason that I want to convert all of my lady friends to get in touch with their inner queer so that I can sleep with them, right? It can’t be that I do not prefer one person over the other simply because of their anatomy, and that I want a strictly monogamous relationship. Everybody thought my best friend and I were romantically involved, and instead of talking to us and asking us directly, they talked among themselves. As a consequence, I left that environment, and in a few short days, my entire framework of loved ones was destroyed, save the framework that is my family. Not only that, but I was so invested in the environment that my identity was built around it, and with my exodus went my identity.

Now, I am here, trying to be someone but feeling like no one.
Feeling like I am depression.
And why not? For that is all that makes me different from the rest.

Who can rescue me from this body of death?

And please,
I beg you

do not say His name,
for His name is on THEIR lips
which spewed venom upon my identity

they own Him

He is not their master.
They are His.

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